“Well . . .” I slide my phone in front of him with my favorite article on the screen, “By Covering Up Their Logos, These Men Uncovered Mistreatment in the League.” I try not to get too salty over the fact that they’re acting like this has been a group effort all along and take the win.

In the article they discuss the mistreatment of the pre-’93 retired players, pointing out the way the League goes out of their way to honor them without putting in the work to actually care for them. They ask whether or not they are doing this on purpose and manipulating the public with halftime honors. But it doesn’t stop there. They also delve into the racial stats of the League, questioning the fairness of the coaching standards by comparing the rate in which Black coaches are fired when white coaches with similar records are given more chances. It’s everything Quinton has been discussing, but what everyone raked him over the coals for talking about.

“Wow.” His eyebrows reach his hairline as he scrolls through the article. “They finally get it.”

“Took them long enough.” I grab the creamer out of the refrigerator so he can’t see the way my eyes roll to the back of my head. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad my idea worked out and people are finally seeing his point, but I’m a bit of a Bitter Betty that it took them so long. And that they are glossing over Quinton starting the movement.

“Just because I can’t see your face doesn’t mean I don’t know the face you’re making right now.” There’s laughter in his voice and I do not appreciate it.

“I don’t know why you’re so amused by this.” Forgetting the creamer, I turn and aim a glare at him with hands planted firmly on my hips. Something I’m sure would be more effective if I wasn’t barefoot in his pajama pants that I rolled up approximately ten times. “It would’ve been so much easier if they just listened to you from the beginning.”

“Maybe.” He stands up and walks around the island. And even though we spent all of last night—and part of this morning—continuing to celebrate our official relationship status, seeing him without his shirt on and his eyes still hooded from sleep makes me want to jump back into bed with him. “But if they listened, I wouldn’t have met you and this wouldn’t feel nearly as sweet.” He lowers his voice just as he drops a gentle kiss on my lips.

And I swear I swoon.

Maybe one day I’ll get used to this, but I really hope not.

—

“YOU BOUGHT RUGS!” I yell as soon as I open Quinton’s front door and cozy goodness is covering his cement floors.